Dripping faucet
Keeps the time in a quiet kitchen.
This is the small source of memory
That lingers on foggy window panes
In cold morning glow,
With rumbling coffee pot sounds
Awaiting a suitor for the ritual.

Born with a thin upper lip and
A temper tattered and cooled by
The nature of others, I await simple grace
In an easy practice of thoughts and
Cigarettes. There is so much noise
In this world. I'll take a quiet stride.

And there has been love, with much
To follow. There have been paper cups,
Dew laden grassy expanse, fields on fire,
And yellow glow of nighttime beginning
Brimmed with the whisper of day,
And the brute force of blackness that is
Night.

You and I were curled amongst our own graces through that passing, once or twice. And you have been there the same.
In your world, the same as mine, a
Repeated rhythm refined in the summer
Breeze underneath woven folds of dark green underneath trees, a gentler world.

I am older and wiser now. I have patched
My hardened being into a steady lull of
Quiet seasons, soft and tender like fern leaves whispering softly with wind light.
Oh, I am all things at once unending.
I am everything, and absorbed in it all.
All the change either a question,
Or action. A simpler system, with gains.